Page:More songs by the fighting men, soldier poets, second series, 1917.djvu/133

 K. M. SCOBIE

Lunae

AVE you ridden alone in the country ever

By the dusty light of the harvest-moon?

—Cycled intent in a vain endeavour

To match your speed to your soul's quick tune

When there's never a sound to break the magic;

For the tyres' crisp whir on the powdered road

And the hoot of an owl in the distance, tragic,

Are pricking your heart with a fairy goad?

Then the hawthorn hedges, sweet dissembling,

Stealthily close on your path, till fear

Of their dense bulk looms; and your heartsick trembling

Shakes into stillness as you swing clear.

Then the high haw-hedges furious will bide,

Drawing back from the light of the moon:

But the black trees haste down the silver hillside.

You know in your heart that you laughed too soon.

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